King David spent most of his waking days on the roof of his palace. He seldom moved through the city. And he never traveled beyond its walls. His gardens were a comfort. His booth became his bedroom.
Nor did he grant audiences to many people.
Not to foreigners seeking alliances. Not to citizens with disputes.
Not even to Joab. Lately King David had simply stopped seeing the commander-in-chief. That hard, grey eye had become repugnant to him. For many years after Absalom’s rebellion it had been necessary to allow the cold man still to lead the armies of Israel. Other rebellions had followed. At least once David’s dominion and the unity of the twelve tribes were maintained by a military force—and none but Joab could drive that spike with accuracy and efficiency.
But the hand that killed for the sake of the kingdom had also killed Absalom.
In his old age David felt he no longer needed to suffer the presence of the man that had murdered Absalom.
Therefore, though Joab regularly requested an audience, the king refused.
Regality. Power. Decisions of state. The administration of a complex kingdom—these things occupied David’s attentions less and less. He sat in his garden all covered with blankets, his dim eyes lidded, his old lips pursing around soundless words. From the streets below rose up the cries of the merchants. And fifty men ran clamoring in front of the chariots of Adonijah, the king’s oldest son. Far away they seemed to be running. Adonijah, handsome man—he rode far, far away into mists and dreamings.
But here was Michal!—his eager, passionate princess. She was clapping her small hands and laughing. Her nostrils always flaring when she laughed. And her laugh was like the tiny bells of the priests. David loved Michal. David had loved Michal first of all. Thin child! Small-bosomed—
Ah, but Michal had died hardened and angry and fat and disappointed. David had not anticipated the depth of his sorrow when she left him. He missed Michal. There was a host of people whom he missed.
Jonathan? Jonathan, brother, I am here, in the corner! And even now Jonathan was grinning with his white teeth and walking toward David among the palms and the pomegranates, and immediately both of them were young men, hunting in a wicker chariot, laughing, throwing themselves lightly down on the green grass, and David was saying with great earnestness, Where is your bow, Jonathan? He was reaching for his friend’s hand in order to express the urgency of his question: What have you done with your bow, Jonathan? I thought you gave it to me, but I can’t find it anywhere.
No! David should not have asked the question! Immediately Jonathan vanished. Jonathan wasn’t here. His beautiful face is under the earth, smiling behind the black soil. There is dirt where his tongue had been—
David the king would sit for hours, sunken under his blankets by the booth on the rooftop, murmuring: “The silver cord is snapping, the golden bowl is breaking, the pitcher is breaking at the fountain, the wheel is cracking at the cistern. Abishag, come sit by me. Abishag, come lie with me and keep me warm.”
And always Abishag obeyed. She would bring near to him her beautiful body and kindness. Abishag the Shunammite was the result of careful searchings through all the land of Israel. Abishag and David would go into his booth and lie down together under heaps of clothing. She would put her warm flesh next to his. For the king was cold. He was seventy years old. His servants had sought everywhere for a maiden to minister unto him in his old age. They had found no one more lovely than she. David lay next to the naked Abishag, but even so he could not get warm. The coldness creeping through his bones was the ice of mortality.
SOMEONE IS SINGING in the king’s room. The softest voice, the brush of a bird’s wing:
Fairer thou art than the children of women;
grace is poured into thy lips,
God hath blessed thee—
Someone is combing the king’s hair carefully and singing:
Gird thy sword upon thy thigh;
O mighty one, O majesty,
ride forth in victory—
Suddenly the door opens, bright sunlight cuts into the room, and two figures enter. One walks straight to the king’s couch. The other, a black silhouette, remains by the door.
The king’s eyes begin to water because of the light.
The near figure says, “Thank you, Abishag. That’s enough for now.” It is Bathsheba’s voice. This is Bathsheba beside him.
David says, “Please. Would someone close the door?”
Bathsheba says, “Solomon, close the door.”
The one by the sunlight turns and pushes the door closed.
David blinks his tears away. Bathsheba has iron-grey hair, strong brows, hoods of flesh above her eyes. She stands erect and very handsome. Abishag has withdrawn into a corner.
Solomon remains by the door.
“David, this is important,” Bathsheba says. “It requires an immediate, official act. Please sit up.”
Abishag steps forward. She slips her hands beneath the king’s shoulders and helps him to sit.
“My lord,” Bathsheba says, “you swore by the Lord your God that Solomon would reign after you. It is time to remember your oath. This very morning, though you do not know it, Adonijah is being declared king. He is sacrificing oxen and sheep by the Serpent’s Stone outside Jerusalem.
He has invited all your sons except Solomon. Israel is waiting, O King, for you to choose who shall sit on the throne after you. And if you do nothing now, you know that Solomon and I shall suffer hereafter—”
While Bathsheba is speaking, the door flies open, the light strikes David like a sword and a third figure enters.
Quickly Solomon closes the door.
This is Nathan the prophet. “Did you order the elevation of Adonijah?” Nathan asks. “He’s eating a coronation feast this very hour. Abiathar the priest and Joab, commander of your armies, are raising cups of wine and crying ‘Long live King Adonijah!’ The whole city can hear it. O King, I was not invited. Neither was Benaiah or your bodyguard—or Solomon here. Solomon is your only offspring not invited. Did you decree the move?”
For just a moment David presses his fingers into his eyes. Before he removes them, he says, “Nathan, go and bring Benaiah here. Bring Zadok the priest.” The door opens. The door closes. Then David frees his vision and finds Solomon. “Come here, my son,” he says.
The slender man steps forward.
David reaches and takes his son’s hand. “As I swore by the Lord that you would reign after me, so will I do this day—”
Bathsheba sinks to her knees. She bows her face to the ground. David prevents Solomon from making the same bow.
“Be strong,” he says. “Listen to me, Solomon. Show yourself a man. Keep the charge of the Lord your God. Walk in his ways, keep his commandments, and you will prosper.”
Solomon’s eyes are large and dark. His hair falls in smooth waves, as black as a raven’s. His cheek is sallow, his step soundless, his fingers as light as reeds. How stalwart is the young man’s heart?
David says, “Kneel.”
Solomon kneels.
David places his two hands behind the head of his son, as if cupping a lotus. He gazes into the young man’s eyes, then softly begins to whisper:
The Spirit of the Lord blows through me,
the Rock of Israel has said unto me:
“The king that rules in the fear of God,
shall dawn like the morning light!
Like the sun in a cloudless sky!
Like the rain that kisses the tender grasses!”
Doesn’t my house stand so with God?
My son, the Lord has established with me
an everlasting covenant,
ordered in all things and secure.
Will he not, like a root in deep earth, bring all I desire
to bud and to flower?
Now David lifts his son’s chin on the crook of his finger and breathes a word that none but Solomon hears:
“When you are king, deal no differently with Jo
ab than he has dealt with others. Let the end match the rest of this hard man’s life.”
The door opens. Three men enter. The sudden sunlight blinds King David, but he continues: “Here is Benaiah my bodyguard—deal loyally with him and he will be forever loyal to you.
“Rise, Solomon,” the king says. “Bathsheba, rise.”
Now David begins to issue a series of commands:
“Benaiah, put Solomon on my mule and lead him down to the spring and the water shaft where we first fought to take this city a lifetime ago.
“Zadok, thank you for your love. When Solomon is at the water shaft, take a horn of oil and anoint him king over Israel.
“Nathan, blow the trumpet and cry, ‘Long live King Solomon!’ Let there be multitudes of people shouting and dancing and playing music and rejoicing. Let them make such a noise that the earth is split by their joy. I want to hear it even up here, where I lie. Then bring Solomon into the king’s palace, and seat him upon the king’s throne, and let his mother sit beside him, queen for the rest of her life.”
The enormous Benaiah, slower in his old age but as strong as ever, finds his tongue and rumbles, “Amen! May the Lord, the God of my lord the king, say so!”
“Go!” David whispers. “Go, go, before Adonijah believes his fevered visions.”
One by one four people go out and are swallowed by sunlight. The fifth, Bathsheba, pauses in the doorway, a shadow black and erect, glancing back. Then she pulls the door closed, and the room falls into darkness.
David releases a long, shuddering sigh and slides down into the bedding on his couch. He is so cold. He is so mortally cold.
I will extol thee, my God and king. I will bless thy name forever—
This last labor laid him lower than a week of physical combat. His hands are feckless, trembling. He can’t take hold of the hem of the cover. And the sunlight that cut to the back of his skull is aching in that place still.
The silver cord is snapping.
I named one son for the Lord, to say that God is our Lord: “Adonijah.” I named the other “Shalom,” for peace. What then?—are peace and lordship striving together?
David allows his eyes to close. The dark of the room and the dark of sightlessness are one with him. A serious fit of shivering seizes his entire body.
There was another son whose name—
Ah, I can’t remember his name!
Bathsheba?
I have had many children by many wives, but this one—
Bathsheba, what was the name of our first child? The one who died because of my sin?—what did we name him?
David’s feet are so cold that they ache, as if someone were beating the soles of them. The cold and the hard pain rise together through his bones. He cannot bend his legs at the knee, but all his limbs—and his jaw as well—are shaking violently.
Is it snowing? Did I walk in the snow with no shoes on? I have lost the feeling in my legs.
A great multitude is shouting something. Somewhere pipes and timbrels are making music. But they are so far away that the word of the people is muffled. It is something both rare and familiar. David has heard that word before, though not often.
Build the Temple on the threshing floor of Araunah! Do you hear me? I am calling as loud as I can. Someone, run and tell my son that he must build a house for the Ark, and it must be built on Mount Moriah!
All at once the shaking ceases. David’s body relaxes. It melts. It runs down like water in the morning.
Darling, did you sweep the snow away?
Someone is combing the king’s hair. The touch of her hand upon his forehead is so infinitely merciful that it draws warm tears into his eyes.
“Who are you?” he whispers.
A voice replies, “Your maidservant, sir.” Then the same feathery voice is singing:
Your robes, my lord, are woven of fragrance,
myrrh and aloes, cassia;
in rooms of ivory stringed instruments
play and make you glad.
At your right hand stands your queen
clothed in the gold of Ophir—
“Abishag?” David whispers.
In this instant the king is lucid. His eye is bright; all sound and sight are clear; nothing is remote; absolutely nothing resists his knowing it.
Kneeling beside him in the night and lamplight is a young woman so beautiful that he cannot stop weeping. Her breath in his nostrils is solemn and warm. Her skin is knit of white cloud. “Abishag, is that you? Are you the one who is singing to me?”
Abishag the Shunammite says, “Yes, my lord. I am singing to you.”
“Yes. Yes, I knew it was you.”
David smiles with a genuine gratitude and closes his eyes and dies.
SO DAVID SLEPT with his ancestors. He was buried in the city that bears his name. And the time that he reigned over Israel was forty years, seven years in Hebron and thirty-three years in Jerusalem.
So Solomon sat upon the throne of David his father; and his kingdom was firmly established.
I will extol thee, my God, my King,
and bless thy name for ever and ever;
great is the Lord! Greatly to be praised!
His greatness is unsearchable.
One generation shall praise thee to another
ever declaring thy mighty acts.
They shall pour forth the fame of thy goodness,
and shall sing aloud thy righteousness.
The Lord is gracious, full of compassion,
slow to anger, abounding in love;
the Lord is good; his tender mercies
are over all that he has created.
The Lord is faithful in all his words,
gracious in all his deeds;
he catches the falling—
SEVENTEEN
Solomon
I
Tamar
THIS MORNING I left my house near the gate of the city and joined the river of Israelites flowing through the streets of Jerusalem up to the bright new building of my brother. It sits high and beautiful, itself like a heaven under heaven—stone walls freshly hewn and white, windows like the eyes of God observing creation, two bronze pillars in front of the porch that gleam sunlight and seem strong enough to bear the weight of the firmament. We have been busy. The city, I mean. Stone dust still blows in the streets and whitens the ground and puts grit between our teeth. It has taken seven years to complete the temple. Seven years and thirty thousand of our own men, not to mention the craftsmen King Hiram sent from Tyre.
Jerusalem exploded. No one did not have something to do. Feeding them alone was itself a national task. I can shape a barley cake in the time it takes to draw two breaths. My hands have cracked, patting cake dough all day long, all year long.
But the king required it.
The labor and the building, I mean. I chose to serve by baking. Except for the start, except for the widowhood, I have always chosen my own lot. Except for the widowhood and the love that sometimes stirs in me.
Solomon built the temple on the northern hill which once was outside Jerusalem. But Solomon ordered all the earth removed from the temple site to be dumped into the ravine that used to divide the hill from the rest of the city. And when foreign stonemasons were dressing the great stone blocks for the temple wall, Israelite laborers carried their rubble to the same ravine. It doesn’t exist any more. We call it the Millo now. Things are changing at a dizzy speed.
Already the king has begun constructing a new house for himself—a palace whose size I will not be able to believe until it is done. I saw the outlines laid down on the ground. I simply cannot imagine the finish. I will be baking barley cakes for a long time to come. So we walked past the house of my father, David, and I thought, How modest it has become in a brief eleven years.
Scarcely considering the newness of it, we crossed the Millo to the temple Mount. We walked through the ground-markings of my brother’s magnificent palace yet to come. And because I arrived among the earliest
groups, I was then able to enter the temple’s inner court, surrounded by a fence of three courses of hewn stone and one of cedar beams.
O Solomon! Where do these visions come from? How wealthy you must be!
I was transfixed by the furniture outside the temple, the high altar directly in front of the porch, thirty feet by thirty and fifteen feet high; the molten sea that sits on the backs of twelve bronze bulls and holds, they say, ten thousand gallons of water! People filled the inner court.
At midday I could hear by the clamor that multitudes now filled Jerusalem. They stood all down the hills in order to be near, if not in hearing, when the Temple of the Lord was dedicated.
Then the sound died. Ten thousand people grew suddenly, enormously quiet. I heard another sort of walking. The tramping of soft feet in a marching rhythm, the pressing of bodies backward. A path was opening through the crowds—coming across the Millo and into the inner court of the temple. I turned and looked. I, too, stepped back. Then priests appeared, carrying on staves the Ark of the Covenant of God.
Behind them came an entire column of priests and Levites, some bearing the holy vessels that had been in the tent with the Ark, others leading so many sheep and oxen I could not count them.
The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel Page 33
